Tonight, dear reader, we pour some out for Kerouac.  October 21 marks the anniversary of the passing of one Jack Kerouac, a literary rebel whose words still almost pulsate with the restless energy of the Beat generation.  I spent a lot of the early 90s reading Kerouac while drinking port.  I think I was trying to channel him.  He struck me more as a force of nature than a writer, which was what I was looking to become.  The port did nothing to advance that cause.  It killed Kerouac, and did me no favors.  I even tried to get into jazz.  I took pride that Jack Kerouac and I were both alive on the same planet for a few months. It was a weird time.

Kerouac’s journey began with what would become his manifesto: “On the Road.”  For those of you in the “it’s not about the destination, it’s about the chaotic, poetic journey, this is your jam.  On the road was (as far as I know) the first American road trip novel, and was the third such novel that I encountered, and the one that cemented the genre as one of my favorites.

Kerouac wrote the draft of “On the Road” on one continuous long scroll of teletype paper so as not to disturb his flow.  The other day I was imagining Jack being alive now and having literally endless digital paper at his disposal, leaving no reason (except for a power outage) to ever stop typing.

He once said, “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved…”  This was Kerouac’s ethos – a torrid love affair wild, the untamed, and the beautifully chaotic.

I’m not sure if the new generation is even capable of appreciating Kerouac.  They seem completely detached from The Past and seem remarkably inept at perspective taking.  And so much for them.

Here’s to Kerouac, a true literary badass.

N.P.: “Desolation Angels” – Jack Kerouac